


Victims of Circumstance - 11/20 – Fathers and Timekeepers

by motsureru



Series: Victims of Circumstance [11]
Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M, Relationship(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-02-06
Updated: 2008-02-06
Packaged: 2017-11-11 18:08:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/481361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motsureru/pseuds/motsureru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spoilers for Season 1 and Season 2. This is a <b><span>sequel</span> </b>to <i>Any Other Night</i>, which is a <b><span>sequel</span></b> to <i>Broken Glass. </i><br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Victims of Circumstance - 11/20 – Fathers and Timekeepers

**Author's Note:**

> An enormous amount of thanks to [](http://etoiledunord.livejournal.com/profile)[**etoile_dunord**](http://etoiledunord.livejournal.com/) , who edits my commas and makes me happy doing it. <3 And a special thanks to [](http://hugh.livejournal.com/profile)[**hugh**](http://hugh.livejournal.com/) , who provided the amazing artwork to go with!  
> 

** Teaser _: “_ ** _You know it was rather unlikely that you’d keep me for the next thirty years without a word or escape here and there, Bob.” Adam tilted his head to the side, giving the man a withering look._

 

  


.11Fathers and Time Keepers

 

“Now, now, now… who’d have thought we’d be here, Adam? Certainly not me.” Bob took in a deep breath, lifting his chin a bit as he paced back and forth in Adam’s cell. Adam’s newcell, that was, one without the grace of a bed or a regular window to a lit hall. Adam sat on the cement floor, hands bound behind him for now.

The man smirked a little, leaning back against the cold stone behind his back, looking up at Bob’s meandering figure. “I could have guessed. You know it was rather unlikely that you’d keep me for the next thirty years without a word or escape here and there, Bob.” Adam tilted his head to the side, giving the man a withering look.

Bob returned it behind his glasses, staring down at the man with an expression that was not amused. “Well, we won’t make the mistake of putting you anywhere near anyone again, Adam. It’s very serious isolation for you for a long time.”

There was a pause then, each man testing the other in the silence. Then Adam sat up a little straighter, pursing his lips a little as he thought. “What’s the difference between our goals, Bob? Haven’t they always been the same?” he asked. “The Company on top, the ignorant at the bottom, the dregs of the dregs disposed of? We didn’t think so differently thirty years ago. You would have helped me. The virus was our perfect means to an end, cleansing this world.” Adam’s eyes narrowed slightly, and he stared at Bob hard. “Are our goals so different now?”

Bob’s lips curved very slightly and he shook his head, expression mild. “They’re not, Adam. Not entirely,” he admitted, strolling slowly to the door. “We just have different ideas about the balance of power, now. In your mind, it means eliminating everyone. In my mind, it’s just _some._ ” Bob smiled to himself and pushed open the cell door, stepping out and holding the door a crack open behind himself.

Bob looked up at the Haitian, who waited patiently with hands held together in front of him. Adjusting his tie, Bob gave a glance back at the cell and nodded towards it. “Take care of it. Get rid of anything he knows about Peter Petrelli. We’re not going to risk this happening again.”

The Haitian nodded, taking the door from the man as Bob turned and made his way back to his office. He pulled it open and entered, eyes meeting Adam’s impassively.

“Ah, the Haitian… That’s all they ever call you, isn’t it?” Adam mused. “Even those who remember your name… Come to take my memories, have you? Get on with it.” 

Gazing down at Adam, the darker man narrowed his eyes, kneeling down at his side. He placed a hand to Adam’s forehead, focusing his mind, and listened as the man began to cry out, began to scream as the Haitian plucked from him memory after memory, pushing and molding Adam’s gray matter as he saw fit. Adam did not resist, but the Haitian noticed it took a little longer, this time, for his gifts to work their magic. It took a little more effort to dig, even though the memories were not deep. When he lowered his hand again, Adam slumped against the wall, breathing heavily from the pain.

“I will not pretend to truly think I can take your memories, if you will not pretend you cannot heal them, Mr. Monroe,” the Haitian said simply. “Just as you know I can speak, I know that every time we play this game, it does nothing.” He stood slowly, staring down stoically into those blue eyes that glared back in their calculating manner. “I did my duty and gave you some pain. Until next time, Mr. Monroe.” 

Adam said nothing as the Haitian turned and exited his cell. Closing the door and listening to the snap of metal as he activated the electronic locks, the Haitian then closed the manual ones. When he let go, he suddenly felt his hand begin to shake. Eyes widening, the Haitian watched it tremble in midair, as though he felt some fear that his mind was not aware of but his body was. He closed his hand into a tight fist, tensing the muscles, and then released it. The tremor was gone. Frowning deeply, the Haitian took a silent breath and slid his hand into his pocket, pulling out his cell phone. He needed to speak with Bennet.

 

Of all the things Mohinder had never had to deal with in his experience as a lover, it had been the full aftermath of a fight. Even when there had been altercations, the result of those quarrels never included having to go home and share a bed with the person afterwards; Mohinder had never lived with any of them before now.

It was for this reason that Mohinder laid awake in bed that night, unable to tempt Sylar into a sobering cup of chai, and felt the alcohol in his system fade away hour by hour. Mohinder contemplated his words, the idiocy behind them, and wished he knew the magic ones that would make Sylar’s wounded but indignant gazes disappear. Mohinder had never experienced unavoidable guilt quite like this before.

Nevertheless, Mohinder’s alarm went off at the usual time for work, and Sylar was, per usual, the first one out of bed in order to make him breakfast and ensure he made it to the bus stop on time. Mohinder felt awful that morning, and he knew quite positively that it was no fault of the alcohol. He dragged himself out of bed, to a shower, and to the breakfast table, where a meal was waiting and silence persisting as well. But Mohinder felt the need to break it.

“Would you like to come with me to the lab today?” he offered.

“No,” Sylar answered immediately. There was an injured sort of pause from his brevity, and Sylar’s eyes flickered up for a moment. “Not today,” he added.

The words seemed to soften something to his demeanor, but Sylar did not offer any more words than that. Mohinder finished the piece of toast left on his plate took his dishes to the sink, turning on the water. 

“Leave them. You’ll be late,” Sylar reminded him simply.

“…Alright. Thank you,” Mohinder replied. He stared at the dishes in the sink for a moment, and then quietly made his way to the door, leaving without another word. 

Sylar sighed and stood as well, taking his dishes to the sink. He had made a decision this morning, and it was one he told himself he was going to stick to, whether or not it made him uncomfortable or unsure of himself to do so.

When Sylar had showered and dressed, made himself look respectable, he was out the door, though with no shopping mission in mind today. No, today he had only one destination, and it took only the time of a brisk walk for him to appear before the door of _Lefebvre_ _montres & réparations. _

Sylar entered like any other customer, but this time he did not stroll about the shop nor avoid the gaze of the old man behind the counter. Today he walked right over to the man as he worked, expecting to be casually recognized and ignored as usual, but what Sylar found there was not within his expectations at all.

Sitting on his usual stool was, in fact, the aged man, but before his work tray was not simply the container of his tools, but a second work tray, placed with a second container to its left and a watch with its face open on the surface of the tray, waiting. There was a stool on the opposite side of the counter as well. 

Sylar’s first thoughts when he entered had been to simply strike up a conversation with the man, finally have another human being to speak to when Mohinder was gone, but here there was a place laid out for Sylar, one that had probably sat there the morning before, too, waiting for a man that had never appeared.

“Bonjour, monsieur _,_ ” the watchmaker said simply, not looking up from the time piece he tinkered with. 

Sylar walked slowly over, as though expecting a trap, and finally slid onto the stool. He sat in silence for a moment, and then took his glasses from his front pocket, placing them on his face. “Bonjour. Je m’appelle Gabriel Gray _,_ ” he spoke softly, laying his fingertips over the watch face. A screw had fallen out of place and the main spring was loose. He’d have to take it apart entirely. Lifting his gaze to the container of tools, Sylar reached in and picked out the ones he needed, beginning to work.

The old man smiled to himself and continued as well, not assigning any special merit with a gaze to what was already a special moment. “Je m’appelle Olivier Lefebvre. C'est un plaisir de vous rencontrer, Gabriel Gray,” he said as he worked.

The words flowed fluidly through Sylar’s understanding, and he never thought he would be so relieved to hear the words ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, Gabriel Gray’ perfectly within his comprehension. There was no judgment in them, no condescension, only the agreement between the two relative strangers to speak like old friends, when all they truly shared was their ability to fix forever in small machines.

“You seem troubled today,” the old man said, French raspy and layered with the labor of age as it had been other times he spoke. But Sylar followed his words completely now, and when he spoke, his own French seemed just as natural.

“A difficult night,” he responded, carefully setting aside parts from the watch to get to those beneath. Each man worked diligently without lifting his eyes.

“Ah, if it is ‘difficult,’ then it must be a woman. Love is the most difficult thing in the world, when you are not an old man like me,” Olivier said, a breathless laugh touching his smiling lips.

Sylar couldn’t help but twitch a tiny smile at that, but he did not wish to pursue that avenue. It made him feel as if his father should have been in the old man’s place, giving him advice on love and life. “How long have you been making watches?” he asked in return.

“Since I was a boy of nine. Since I was tall enough to sit in a chair properly,” the man said, resettling his thick glasses on his nose.

“Ah… and no sons to give your business to? It must be hard to do by yourself,” Sylar murmured.

Olivier chuckled a throaty chuckle to himself. “My sons? Take over an old-fashioned business like this…? No no, they are city boys. They would sooner die than learn a ‘useless’ trade like this…”

Sylar finally looked up, gazing past his glasses. There was a quiet, accepting melancholy to the old man’s face, even through his smile as he spoke those words. Sylar absorbed it, contemplated it, and leaned back a little, looking to the watch and the tools in his hand. Suddenly something felt settled for him, and it didn’t take Sylar forever to realize what.

Gabriel Gray couldn’t say, anymore, that he regretted becoming Thomas Gray at the age of eighteen. He had worn his father’s life like an old coat then, a worn out coat, both comforting and a little shameful to have on one’s shoulders. He wore it until the day Chandra Suresh had come to his door and offered him a new one. But he’d grown out of Thomas Gray, now; Gabriel didn’t have to feel guilty about leaving his father’s memory tucked away any longer. He’d given his father nearly fifteen years of his life, and now, shaky though it had begun, he had his own, and strangely enough, Sylar was happy with that. He could sit here, beneath the gazes of so many faces, and be whoever he was without guilt or regret.

Looking up at Olivier’s face, so marked by time and wear, Sylar smiled slightly. “I’ve always hated the city,” he said, “Life moves a little too fast for me there.”

 

 

For Noah Bennet, a man cast out of his wider network of connections, it should have been more difficult to gain access to the information he was looking for. The Haitian, however, had given him an address to work from: the whereabouts of a set of the divided paintings. It did not take long for a determined man like Bennet to have his efforts of research to pay off, and a new mission had soon begun. The address was no normal one; it ended up being a bank in Switzerland, one with a lock box reserved for the wife of one Carlos Mendez, a man Bennet had only met once, but was never aware of his high status in the Company until after his death.

A series of falsified documents and a very unique story had allowed Bennet into this place, waiting in an office for the head of the bank to allow him access to the box in question. He only needed to take inventory, he’d told them, for the sake of a wife and relatives who stood to inherit the contents. In truth, he didn’t need the paintings themselves, only to see them, and as an ‘official’ of the Probate Division, he had to ensure that the relatives who had decided to access these goods were properly and accurately able to distribute them among family members.

Though Bennet had expected to encounter more resistance, attempting to get into the Mendez’s lock box, he found that security was only as tight as the documentation, and he waited patiently for the return of his opportunity. It was in that waiting period that his phone rang.

“Yes?”

“Noah, I need to speak with you for a moment,” the Haitian’s deep voice sounded on the other end. Bennet felt his heart rate spike for an instant.

“Is there trouble?”

“No, no trouble. Not for you,” the Haitian informed him. “Adam is secure, and you have the addresses. All should be well. That is why I am contacting you.”

Bennet glanced behind him at the closed office door, adjusting his seat. “Well what is it, out with it.”

“I am sick, Noah,” the Haitian replied. He stared down at his own hand, watching it quiver. It was one of the first signs. “I believe I may have the virus.”

“ _What?_ ” Bennet leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “From the Company? Did they inject you? We can fix this,” he insisted. He could feel his plans slowly beginning to unravel; Bennet couldn’t afford to lose his contact on the inside. Not now.

“No, the Company has done nothing to me. I believe this to be natural. I am going home. I am returning to Haiti,” he replied calmly.

Bennet felt his jaw clench, and he gripped the phone hard. “We can get you a cure. We can get Suresh. If the Company doesn’t already have something, we can get it- Don’t back out now. I need your hel-”  
“No, Noah,” the Haitian interrupted, “I will not seek out a cure. This virus came to me by God’s will, and I will see it through. This happened for a reason. I am sorry, my friend, but I cannot help you any longer. You have the location of the last painting, and I know well you can handle Ivan Spektor on your own. Good luck, my friend.”

“No, wait!” Bennet pled, but the other end of the line had already gone dead. He swore quietly under his breath.

Bennet considered his options as he strolled down the hallway to the safe areas, and listened only vaguely to the chatter of the man guiding him. If he wouldn’t have an insider informing him, what would he have in the face of the Company? Who would give him codes and locations, tell him of their weaknesses and where they’d be moving in the event of an emergency? Had the Haitian thought these paintings were enough? Had he wiped his hands free of the responsibility and expected Bennet to be able to do it alone? 

“Sir?” The sound of locks being undone brought him to his attention, and suddenly the lock box was out on a table, waiting for him. Bennet blinked up at the man and smiled.

“Thank you. I’ll only be a few minutes.”

With a short nod the man walked out, closing the door behind him to leave Bennet alone with the contents of the box. Bennet took out his digital camera from his pocket, setting it aside with his falsified paperwork. Sliding back the metal lid to the long box, he found a large tube inside, much the same length as his own, but a little thicker to hold more than one painting. 

Bennet took a moment to reflect as he lifted the tube, letting his fingers curl around the stopper at the end. Up until now, this had been made easy, if one could call it that. But only Ivan himself would know where the last ones were. Only Ivan would have been smart enough to hide them and take more precautions than the others had. And he would have to see Ivan alone, now.

Pulling out the stopper, Bennet turned the tube over, reaching in and sliding out the paintings within. He set them down against the table, pinning the stack down with the edge of the lock box so it would not curl. 

The image marked ‘ **3/8** ’ on top of the others was a plain one, not unlike the final piece the Haitian had sent him. It showed a forearm stuck out against a black background, holding an unmarked vial in its grasp. Bennet had expected, perhaps, to see it with a clear or translucent liquid within, like the other paintings depicting the virus. But this vial instead was deep crimson, a sharp contrast to the background, and clearly blood. Bennet’s mind raced with the possibilities. Was it just another experiment, or…?

He quickly lifted the painting to see the next, like a slideshow of events to come. This was one he could have never expected. Clearly an indoor scene, cast with walls of off-white, Bennet could see Mohinder, hair a little longer than the time he saw him last, but face ever the same. He was mostly facing the viewer, a bit at an angle, with a small suitcase grasped in one hand and the other out and to the side, palm up and spread out as though pleading. His mouth was open, perhaps in argument, and his expression seemed troubled. Another man’s form was with his back to the viewer, his hand also out and turned over in a entreating gesture. Though his face could not be seen, Bennet saw his dark clothes, his short black hair, and knew with certainty who the figure would be.

At first Bennet stared at this picture, the fourth painting of eight, and wondered what sort of connection could possibly be made. He stared, he wondered, and finally it hit him, and Bennet pulled down the first painting again, eyes widening.

_That was it._

The Haitian was not through here. Not yet. Mohinder’s blood was the cure, and if the Company hadn’t injected the Haitian, there was still hope yet. All he had to do was contact the doctor as soon as possible. Their partnership wasn’t finished yet, and the Haitian too, would be able to see that now. For the sake of his cause, for the sake of his family… Bennet could beg Mohinder Suresh a dangerous favor.

Pulling both of the upper canvases away, Bennet laid eyes on the last; it was a sight that made his heart stop instantly. He pulled the first two off entirely, staring wide-eyed behind his glasses at the image rendered before him.

Set against a background of ominous dark purples and blues was the profile of a young girl, seated against a stiff-backed chair. She herself was slumped over in the seat, however, blonde hair hanging loosely over her temples and shoulders, obscuring her face. Strapped to the arm of the chair, her visible wrist was bound tightly, fingers gripping the ends hard enough to snap her brittle nails as she struggled. A hand moved forward from behind her, needle in hand. Across the canvas were streaks as though one viewed the scene through glass, and a horizontal black strip with vivid red text read: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. BIOHAZARD ZONE. 

Bennet’s breath caught in his throat and he felt his eyes sting faintly with the threat of emotions he dared not experience, not now. “Claire-bear…” he breathed softly, taking a step away from the painting. Pulling out his phone, he flipped it open, staring at the screen blankly for a moment. He needed his insider now more than ever. “I can’t give up… not just yet, my friend. Neither can you.”

  
  
  


  


  



End file.
